


(re)Surfacing

by machshefa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, really gen, slash goggles if you really squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machshefa/pseuds/machshefa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My vision blurs, and this must be a dream, because I’ve come for Moriarty, but it’s <i>John</i> who steps out to greet me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(re)Surfacing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very revised version of "Surfacing", which was written for the spring, 2011 Holmestice Exchange.

The pool is smaller than I remember, the air more humid. Every sound echoes, ricocheting off the tiles.  
  
My vision blurs, and this must be a dream, because I’ve come for Moriarty, but it’s  _John_  who steps out to greet me.  
  
Everything stops.  
  
If I were capable of turning my head, I would see the surface of the water shimmering, impenetrable.  
  
 _John? How is it John? Could_  he _be John?_.  
  
The walls evaporate and early evening sun spills onto the floor.  
  
Now the pool isn’t tiled any more; it’s bounded by reeds and mud and rocks.  
  
I’m seven years old. Seven years, eight months and twelve days, exactly.  
  
I’m thirty-four, but I’m seven and, at the moment, under water. The lake by our house is warm, but I’m cold, the fading sunlight barely reaching me here, below the surface; the little rowing boat bobs above me, just out of reach.  
  
He’s thrown my sextant into the water for no good reason. Stupid Mycroft. Mummy sent him to take me home for bed, but I’m not tired.  
  
“I’m  _busy_ , Mycroft,” I shout, and stamp my way across the long grass and into the shallow water.  
  
The floor of the lake is slippery, and my sextant is coated in mud. I love the feeling of soft earth in my hands and between my toes. I don’t give it a moment’s thought before flinging my body into the water.  
  
Mummy will be angry. My clothes will be wet and muddy again, but I don’t care. My instrument is more important. It was my father’s and grandfather’s before him. But Father gave  _me_  the secret of the night sky; he showed me how the cosmos makes more sense than the movement of people down below.  
  
Twilight is falling—the stars are emerging. I’ve waited and waited to use my sextant by myself (even Mummy said I was patient). But Mycroft is shouting and I am about to miss my chance to chart Jupiter’s appearance. I will see it. I  _will_ , and no big brother, no matter how bossy, will make me abandon my sextant here, drowning in mud and cloudy water.  
  
I can almost hear Mycroft scream when my head dips below the surface. It’s as if the earth beneath me has dropped away, sucking me  _downdowndown_  to the bottom of the lake.  
  
It happens too quickly for me to make a sound, so Mycroft’s voice will have to do.  
  
I can’t breathe. I can’t see.  
  
I can barely even  _think_.  
  
Father will probably miss me more than he misses the sextant.  
  
In a moment (far too long), arms wrap around my body and pull me, lifting me up and out. I think he’s yelling again, but I can only hear the rushing in my head and the whoosh of water beneath gasps for air.  
  
“You’re fine,” he insists, despite all evidence to the contrary. “You’re an  _idiot_ , but you’re fine.”  
  
But I’m not. Not an idiot (he always blames me—always) and certainly not fine.  
  
Then the world collapses around me, and one thought tethers me to earth.  
  
 _Dreams never reveal themselves to us whole._  
  
  


~~**~~

  
  
“He’s awake.”  
  
Mycroft.  
  
Interfering, as always.  
  
John’s hand slips around my wrist, checking my pulse. Unnecessary. I can hear the rhythm of the monitor behind the bed.  
  
He’s hovering. From the stubble on his cheek and the dried blood on his shirt, it’s clear he hasn’t left the bedside for days. It makes no sense, unless he’s here to finish the job.  
  
 _Why did you do it, John?_  Why?  
  
He leans over to check the dressing on my arm. I flinch and narrow my eyes at him.  
  
Watching.  
  
“Are you in pain?” he asks. His voice is warm and concerned.  
  
“’m fine.” I pull my arm away, tucking it safely beneath the blanket.  
  
John looks puzzled, but Mycroft has his usual supercilious mask in place.  
  
At least there’s one thing in this room about which I can be certain… one man.  
  
My head pounds again and I close my eyes.  
  
John is speaking, his words tumbling into the air between us, but I can’t hear anything above the rushing water.  
  
  


~~**~~

  
  
Starlight slips through my window and takes me away, long arms tangling around me, bringing me back to that white room.  
  
John stands across from me in a Westwood suit.  
  
My arm is extended, sextant pointing at him like a weapon.  
  
“Run, Sherlock!”  
  
It’s John’s voice.  
  
“Sherlock, run!”  
  
But I’m confused. The sound of the sextant crashing into the water blows through the walls, and I’m submerged again.  
  
Strong arms lift me to safety. I am dripping wet and gasping for air.  
  
  


**

  
  
It feels like the first breath after being under nearly too long. I will open my eyes soon. I only need another moment.  
  
“Awake?”  
  
The voice fills me, and I breathe even more deeply. For an instant, I am bathed in sunlight.  
  
Safe.  
  
And then, I surface again and remember.  
  
“Nearly,” I say.  
  
“Does anything hurt?” he asks, flipping through the chart at the end of my bed.  
  
 _Everything_. I don’t say it out loud.  
  
I shake my head and catch his eye.  
  
He looks like a man whose best friend has been gravely injured. Not like a man who has engineered the most profound of all betrayals.  
  
I have mastered disguise, but this chills me. I want him away from me, but first I need to understand.  
  
“I…” He clears his throat and that wrinkle pops up on his forehead. “We nearly lost you.”  
  
“Nonsense,” I say. “I’m fine.” I try to sit up, but the bed is stuck. John props some pillows behind me, and I hold my breath until he steps back.  
  
“He got away,” John says. His brow is furrowed. “I expected it to be the first thing you asked when you woke up.”  
  
 _He?_  
  
My confusion must show, and John’s scowl deepens.  
  
“Do you know what I’m talking about, Sherlock?”  
  
“Of course I do,” I huff.  
  
But he’s pulled out a small torch from his pocket and is examining my eyes, one at a time, shining the light into them as if he might discern precisely what I do and don’t know by examination alone.  
  
As ever, he sees, but does not observe.  
  
“Mildly concussed,” he mutters. “But we knew that.” He folds his arms across his chest. His eyes flick from my face to the monitors and back again, and a roar of heat rises in my chest.  
  
It’s only mild head injury leading to misunderstanding, no, misinterpretation of the data. It must be. It’s the only explanation for forgetting what I learned at the pool, or for not caring, despite it.  
  
So I decide I will be the one to tell the truth.  
  
“It’s possible there are some holes in my memory of—” I wave my arm. He knows.  
  
John frowns.  
  
“What do you mean, holes?” he asks, and his voice is too sharp. “What do you remember?”  
  
I shake my head.  
  
“Just tell me what happened,” I say. The lies will show me what’s real. Lies always do.  
  
  


**

  
  
But John doesn’t appear to be hiding anything, unless it’s buried beneath ruddy cheeks and a great deal of yelling. There’s no telltale shift of the eyes, no glances away. His hand clenches as it always does when he’s agitated. Not a single one of the ‘tells’ telegraphing every single time someone ( _Not John. Not usually John_ ) is lying.  
  
I’m vaguely surprised a nurse hasn’t come to see what the ruckus is about. Perhaps he’s not actually as loud as he seems. My head does hurt quite a lot.  
  
“I know you think you’re invincible!” He’s still shouting. “But what the  _hell_  were you doing, going off alone to meet that maniac—not telling anybody what you were about?” He’s glaring at me, but his expression softens for an instant. Interesting. “Why would you do that, Sherlock? Why would you put yourself in danger and not tell anyone who actually  _cares_  about you what you were planning?”  
  
This bit, I do remember.  
  
“I’m not a child,” I say. “I don’t answer to  _you_. Besides, you had your own plans.”  
  
John drops his gaze, and my eyes narrow.  
  
There it is.  
  
Guilt.  
  
I  _knew_  it.  
  
“Well, my plans for the evening went about as far off track as plans can possibly go,” he says, and he sounds weary.  
  
I’m silent.  
  
“Why didn’t you run? I  _told_  you to run.” His voice is raspy, and I don’t know what he means.  
  
 _Run?_  
  
He looks as if he wants to take me by the shoulders and shake me.  
  
I flinch and pull the covers over myself more securely.  
  
I hold my breath and wait for him to show his hand.  
  
John turns his back to me, taking deep breaths. His shoulders shudder and my stomach twists into knots.  
  
“I have to go,” he says, and he’s gone.  
  
  


~~**~~

  
  
I’m drifting again.  
  
I’m lying in a dinghy at the centre of the inlet ( _at the sea… it happened at the sea_ ), soaking up the last bit of sun before twilight falls.  
  
I have my sextant fixed to the side of the boat, ready to sight the horizon and find the first star just as soon as nautical twilight begins.  
  
My arms and legs are spread wide, soaking in the sun and summer air. I’m  _happy_ , and even though I’m afloat, I’m grounded by the sounds and smells of the water and the birds and the cheese roll Mummy made me take for lunch that’s lying half-eaten in the crumpled paper on the floor.  
  
There’s shouting in the distance, but I don’t lift my head. Mummy and Father are at the house we’ve rented for the hols, and if they want me, Mycroft will be along soon enough.  
  
I must have dozed, because next thing I hear is Mycroft’s voice.  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
I lift one leg into the air and wave my foot at him.  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
Maybe he can’t see me. I wave the other foot, too.  
  
“Sherlock, hurry! You have to come. Now, Sherlock!”  
  
This isn’t Mycroft’s bossy voice. I don’t recognise this voice at all.  
  
My heart starts to pound.  
  
I sit up. He’s calling to me from the shore. His face is red, and it might not be from running to fetch me.  
  
I’m standing now, and the rowing boat is rocking and listing. There’s nothing to grab hold of, nothing to hold me steady. One more tip of the boat, and I’m in the water. No, I’m under the water, and I can’t breathe; no matter where I look, I can’t find the surface.  
  
The water churns with chunks of debris all around. My arms are flailing (searching for something, anything to grab hold of) and for a moment, I’m sure there is another body with me beneath the surface.  
  
But I’m alone.  
  
It’s no different here; I’m always alone.  
  
If I don’t find air soon, I’ll never, ever know what it means when Mycroft uses  _that_  voice.  
  
But air finds me, and it’s another broken voice that calls my name ( _Do I recognise it? I recognise it. How do I recognise it?_ ) and strong, steady hands pump the water from my lungs and let in more air.  
  
And then it’s Mycroft and his usual bossy voice and his unpractised arms around me.  
  
“I need my sextant,” I gasp between sucking in great gulping breaths. I’m trying to run away from him, but he’s holding me too tight. “It’s still on the boat.”  
  
“Forget the boat,” he says. “Forget the sextant.” His voice cracks, and I know it’s not because he’s worried about the loss of my instrument or ruining my plans.  
  
“It’s  _mine_ ,” I insist. My wet clothes tangle around me when I try to kick him. “I  _need_  it.” How else will I understand?  
  
But the boat has sunk below the surface of the water, already making its way to the muddy bottom. It’s Mycroft’s fault it’s gone.  
  
Lost.  
  
I kick and I hit and I fight him when he tells me. I scream until my voice is raw, and I call him a liar, even though I know he’s not. Noises collide in my head—explosions and raging water and high-pitched laughter and “Run! Sherlock, run!” until my screams drown them out and I can’t bear to listen anymore.  
  
When they put my father into the ground, I imagine my sextant, hidden in the mud deep beneath the sea.  
  
I never go back to find it.  
  
  


~~**~~

  
  
He’s sitting in the corner of the room when I open my eyes. His head is bowed, and he’s staring blankly at the clasped hands resting in his lap.  
  
The muscles of his face are slack. He looks exhausted.  
  
I see him, still here, always here with me, and for a moment I remember the bliss of using my sextant (so long ago… it’s been so very long since I deleted everything I once knew about the movement of the night sky) and finally finding an elusive star emerging just above the horizon.  
  
“John?”  
  
He looks up.  
  
Oh. Yes.  _John_.  
  
“It’s possible I’m a bit disoriented,” I say. “Which is understandable, of course, given the head injury.”  
  
He nods, and a flash of grief flies across his face.  
  
“What’s the last thing you remember, Sherlock?” he asks, but I think he already knows.  
  
“You stepping out of the stall at the pool. After that, nothing.”  
  
He looks at the ceiling and takes another deep breath. If I could see his eyes, I might be able to tell whether he’s going to break down or shout at me again.  
  
Why would he want to shout at  _me_? I’m not the one who might be Moriarty.  
  
“So,” he says, wrapping his mouth precisely around every word, “the last thing you remember is walking into the building, expecting to meet Moriarty. And there I was.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Right,” he echoes.  
  
He looks away and, for a moment, I think he’s going to leave.  
  
John’s face is ruddy when he turns around, and his mouth is hard.  
  
Oh. He is angry.  
  
“So you’ve allowed me to be here with you, alone, thinking that  _I’m_  Moriarty?”  
  
Yes. I suppose I have.  
  
“What the  _hell_  is wrong with you, Sherlock? Haven’t you got any sense of self-preservation at all?”  
  
It takes me a moment to parse what he means.  
  
“I wasn’t sure,” I explain. “I can’t protect myself if I don’t  _understand_.”  
  
I don’t say that understanding is more important, anyway. No matter who he is, he already knows.  
  
“All you had to do was tell your brother your suspicions and I’d be… oh, hell, who even knows where I’d be by now.”  
  
True.  
  
“You wanted to figure it out.”  
  
Obviously.  
  
“You wanted to catch… him, yourself.”  
  
I had, yes.  
  
But that’s not it. I shake my head and close my eyes, putting the pieces in the right places. Remembering.  
  
“I know you’re dangerous,” I say without thinking.  
  
He snorts and looks away.  
  
“Then why am I still here?”  
  
“I haven’t sorted it out yet,” I say, and all at once I know I need him to stay. At least until I understand.  
  
“If you think I’m dangerous, I can’t be here, Sherlock,” he says. “I  _want_  to be here with you, but not if you can’t trust me.” His voice breaks and it reminds me of Mycroft’s that day so long ago.  
  
 _Oh, God._  
  
My head is in my hands (they’re shaking so hard), and John is at my side despite what he’s just said.  
  
I can’t hear him. The pounding in my head is fierce, like the whoosh of water beating against you when you’re down too deep. Somebody is moaning, and someone (John?) injects medicine into my drip until finally the pounding stops enough for me to crack open my eyes.  
  
John is clutching my hand now, it’s strong and sure, steadying me, and in a flash, I see his arms wrapped around Moriarty’s neck.  
  
 _Sherlock, run!_  
  
It’s all coming to the surface, flooding me, overflowing. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it; what’s the difference, now?  
  
“He took you,” I’m saying, and I remember. I remember it all. John, red lights dancing over his heart ( _he could stop John’s heart_ ), showing me what it would look like to lose everything. “You let him take you away. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”  
  
For a moment, it looks as if he can’t breathe. Relief and sadness and hope tumble across his face.  
  
“Who, Sherlock?”  
  
“You,” I say. But it’s not just John. I know it’s not. “You were going to let him kill you, and I didn’t even say goodbye.”  
  
“But he didn’t kill me, Sherlock. I’m here. I’m  _fine_.”  
  
He’s right. He’s here. He’s safe.  
  
But I’m not. I’ll never be safe again.  
  
 _We thought it was safe. I thought the danger had passed. Idiot. I should know better than to let down my guard._  
  
But it’s too late now. I know it as surely as I know John would throw himself into danger for me again without a second thought. As surely as I know I would do the same for him.  
  
“What if he takes you again? What if something happens to you?” I’d die. I would. I’m sure of it. I nearly had (had wanted to, really) when Father—  
  
“Is that how I’m dangerous, Sherlock?”  
  
“Dangerous, yes.” It’s obvious, isn’t it?  
  
“When was the last time you cared about what happened to someone?”  
  
That stops me short.  
  
I close my eyes and see the twilit sky, the moon rising. I remember the warmth of my father’s body standing behind me, his patient voice, and his gentle touch, guiding my hands as we (together, the two of us) explored the night sky.  
  
“When I was seven years old,” I say, and I have to swallow past the tightness in my throat, “my father gave me a sextant. He taught me to chart the movement of the stars.”  
  
  


~~**~~

  
  
I’m gripping both his hands now.  
  
He sat on the bed next to me right after I explained how I’d split Mycroft’s lip that day. Nobody commented on it, not even at the funeral when we’d been polished up like a matched set, standing like statues at the graveside.  
  
“Sentiment,” I say. Disgusting.  
  
John brushes my cheek with his hand and turns my face so we’re eye to eye. His eyes are such a deep blue. There’s just the narrowest strip of colour ringing pupils wide and deep, as if he’s opened the doors to his soul so I can see. So I know for sure.  
  
“He was your  _father_.”  
  
There’s that knot in my throat again, so I just nod.  
  
“He knew what it was like inside my mind.”  
  
John smiles.  
  
“He was brilliant, then,” he says. “To understand  _you_.”  
  
He smiles, and I smile with him.  
  
He’s worn from the effort of caring for me. But there is a light in his eyes, and it smoothes away the lines of fatigue, and I think I might finally understand.  
  
“He was. Brilliant.” I had felt his absence like a wound for so long. It would be  _unbearable_  to lose him again.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I couldn’t run, John.” He has to know. “I would never leave you there like that.  _Never._ ”  
  
He blinks, and I squeeze his hand.  
  
“Don’t ever run from me, even if I tell you to,” he murmurs. “Please. Just don’t.”  
  
I cannot speak.  
  
All I can do is fold his hands in mine and know that he is here. That I am no longer alone.  
  
It reminds me of salt water and starlight.  
  
~fin

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DrinkingCocoa, Dickgloucester, AnnieTalbot and Scoffy for their usual, invaluable insights and red beta pens. My stories are always so much better because of their input.
> 
> This has been a fascinating exercise for me. Editing and reshaping a story written a year ago, tightening it, sharpening it, and seeing if it can stand on its own without depending on the slash elements has been challenging. I hope that you enjoy the result.


End file.
